


and i confessed, confessed to you

by endofadream



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Artist Steve Rogers, Canon Disabled Character, Deaf Character, First Kiss, Insecure Bucky Barnes, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Shy Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 03:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18023762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofadream/pseuds/endofadream
Summary: This is probably an entirelyinappropriatetime for Steve to notice how handsome this mystery man is: with his hooded almond-shaped eyes and prominent brow, he’s the kind of old-world handsome that Steve isn't accustomed to seeing outside of old black-and-white movies.Much less sitting across from himholding his hand.Holy shit, he’s holding Steve’s hand.





	and i confessed, confessed to you

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was saved in my laptop as "probably never gonna finish" so take THAT, depression!
> 
> a long time ago there was a tumblr prompt that went something along the lines of "character A gets stood up and character B swoops in." this was (quite clearly) based off of that.

Steve has been sitting at the table facing the window for nearly an hour now, watching the foot traffic outside and growing increasingly despondent as the shadows cast by the buildings crawl darker and darker. With each person that walks past the restaurant, or each person inside that doesn't head towards his booth, a knot begins to grow in his belly until it’s near-suffocating.

The sketchpad that he always carries in his messenger bag is on the tabletop next to his half-empty glass of water, but the doodles are nothing significant. More to pass the time than anything, and to avoid the knowing looks from the people around him.

His waitress—Kate, her name tag reads—shows back up at the table, her smile cheery despite the pity that Steve can see in her eyes. More than anything that pity is like a hatchet to the chest.

He’d requested a table for two, somewhere near the front, just so the guy couldn’t come up on his right and surprise him. Now it appears the precaution had been unnecessary. Steve should have known; this is how it  _ always _ ends, no matter what.

“Would you like some more water?” Kate asks, smoothing down her apron. “Maybe something to eat while you wait? Our appetizers are really good.”

Humiliation burns hot at the tips of Steve’s ears. Refusing to bow to the tears he feels prick his eyes at the softness to her voice he instead ducks his head and brushes away invisible lint from his jeans, saying, “Uh, no thanks. I’m fine for now.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Kate responds, giving him one last look before walking away.

Steve sighs once he’s alone. The time on his phone says 8:13 when he checks it—a full hour and thirteen minutes past their meeting point. Had the guy come in, taken one look at the pale, scrawny kid sitting in their agreed spot, and left? Probably. He wouldn’t be the first, nor, Steve muses bitterly, the last.

It’s strictly stubbornness and perseverance that keeps Steve seated at the table. Like maybe the guy had just forgotten to text, even though Steve knows that’s not true.  _ You give people too much credit _ he can practically hear Peggy say, and she’s right.

Fifteen minutes, sure. A half-hour, maybe, if the train got stopped. An hour and thirteen minutes later? Steve is doomed to be alone for the rest of his miserable life.

He should just leave, head home to some Netflix and cold takeout like he does every Friday night, but there isn't a way out of this where Steve can keep his dignity. Being stood up in a public place is humiliating enough; accepting it is just salt in the wound.

Steve presses the home button on his phone with a little more force than intended.

Maybe if he waits here long enough everyone who had seen him come in will leave. Then he can do his walk of shame back to his apartment to resign himself to porn and his right hand for the rest of his _ miserable fucking life _ .

“So sorry I’m late,” Steve hears from the left, and he nearly jumps a mile in his seat. His phone falls from his hand to clatter loudly onto the tabletop, Instagram open where he was about to begin scrolling through his feed.

He turns his head just as a man drops into the seat across from him. There isn't even a moment for Steve to properly scope him out before the man is speaking almost a little too fast, like he’s scared Steve is going to shoo him off: “We had a last-minute client call and my phone died on the subway ride here, so I couldn't text you.”

The man reaches across the table and takes Steve’s hand. The imploring look in his eyes begs  _ please play along, _ and Steve, still utterly nonplussed and not quite sure if he should yank his hand away or not, has no choice but to.

“It’s…okay,” he says slowly, still trying to figure out this guy’s endgame.

The man’s face lights up, a quick smile curling the corners of his mouth. His long brown hair falls almost to his shoulders; a stray piece has fallen across his forehead, and Steve tries to not think about how absolutely adorable that is.

This is probably an entirely  _ inappropriate _ time for Steve to notice how handsome this mystery man is: with his hooded almond-shaped eyes and prominent brow, he’s the kind of old-world handsome that Steve isn't accustomed to seeing outside of old black-and-white movies.

Much less sitting across from him  _ holding his hand _ .

Holy shit, he’s holding Steve’s hand.

“Great!” the man says. Kate’s made her way back over, looking relieved, with her pad and pen ready. “We’ll have two of the IPAs on draft,” the man says, twisting to look up at her, and she nods. He turns back to Steve. “That okay, babe?”

Steve isn't really much of a drinker, beer or otherwise, so he just nods, shrugging his shoulders a bit. He absolutely does not let his eyes linger on the man’s lower lip, where it’s now being tugged between his teeth.

When Kate leaves to go place their drink orders he leaps at the chance to ask, “ _ What  _ was  _ that?” _

“I am so sorry,” the guy says.

All of the false cheer and bravado dims from his face, leaving behind lines and hollow circles carved deep under his eyes. He lets go of Steve’s hand— _ had he really been holding that the entire time? _ —and leans back in his seat. “I hope you don't hate me. I just…you were alone and I figured someone must have stood you up by the way you kept watching the door, and…well, no one deserves that. Especially not someone as cute as you.”

“Oh. I.” Steve can feel the flush, hot as a furnace, creeping up the back of his neck to warm his ears and cheeks. “Thanks. Um. I guess?”

The man lets out a little breath of a laugh. Steve knows from hefty experience what that laugh is trying to hide. “You’re looking real pale there, pal. Should I switch out those beers for some Jager shots? Or should I get the hell out of here?” An embarrassed tilt to his words makes them come out stuttered. “I—I didn’t even ask if you were interested in guys at all, shit, I’m sorry.”

Steve makes a face. “Oh god, no. No shots.” He’s had experience with those his freshman year of college and it did not end well. He still can’t even so much as look at a bottle without feeling queasy. “The…the beer is fine. Thanks. And I’m…um, very interested.”  _ In you specifically. _

He looks down and fiddles with the tarnished silver handle of his knife. He can hear the man’s sigh of relief, and Steve looks back up to ask, “What’s your name? You never gave me one.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Oh shit. Yeah. My name.” It’s the guy’s turn to look a little flushed, and it gives Steve a tiny swell of pride. “I’m—it’s James. James Barnes. But you can call me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” When Steve says it a little smile curves at the corner of his mouth. He likes it, for some reason; it has character, and seems to go hand-in-hand with Bucky’s eager persona. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky. I’m Steve Rogers, and thank you for saving my sorry ass tonight. I got real lucky that there are good samaritans like you out there.”

Bucky scoffs. “I’m the lucky one, getting to sit with the cutest guy in the room.”

There it is again.  _ Cute _ . Steve doesn't know what to say to that, and luckily he doesn't have to try to figure it out because Kate returns, deftly setting down two coasters before placing two tall, cold glasses of beer on them. Bucky thanks her and reaches to take his glass, and that’s when Steve actually sees the empty, pinned-up left sleeve of Bucky’s shirt.

After taking a sip Bucky notices the direction of Steve’s gaze. Steve is mortified to be caught staring. A hot rush of perspiration sweeps over him as he opens his mouth to apologize, but all Bucky does is smile, a little more tight-lipped than his others, and say nonchalantly, “It’s a sob story, trust me. Way too depressing for us just getting to know each other.”

“I’m—,” Steve starts to say, but stops and wets his lips. What does he want to say? That he’s sorry? He has nothing to apologize for and Bucky is probably over the whole pity-from-strangers thing. Steve knows that he sure as hell is when they notice his hearing aid.

"I understand,” he ends up saying, and he can immediately see the slight tension bleed out of Bucky’s posture. It makes Steve’s heart ache, thinking that Bucky was worried that Steve would stop caring once he saw what wasn’t there.

Now that he replays the last ten minutes back, though, he can see how intentional Bucky was with his body language about keeping attention off of it. That level of subtlety speaks volumes about what Bucky has experienced. If it were possible, it would make Steve like Bucky  _ more _ .

Because, well, thing is, Steve already likes Bucky. Not just that he swept in when all seemed lost and saved Steve from a disaster—that’s just part of it, albeit a currently very prevalent part. Steve likes the way that Bucky smiles not just with his mouth but with his eyes; he isn't faking it like Steve sees in a lot of other people.

Steve likes Bucky’s laugh and likes that Bucky isn't treating him delicately or as if he can’t handle himself. He likes the way that Bucky tucks his long hair back behind his ear every so often, and he even likes the way that it occasionally falls in front of Bucky’s face.

Steve’s fingers twitch on the tabletop, towards his abandoned sketchbook. If only he could get to it without Bucky noticing.

Steve is good at reading people—always has been, according to his ma.  _ You  _ see _ people, not just see people _ , she used to say. He sees Bucky: not just the guy sitting across from him reading the menu, but the shadows in his eyes and the way that he occasionally tugs at the pinned hem of his shirtsleeve.

It isn’t difficult to see what trauma looks like. Everyone has their own story to tell and their own speed in which they want to tell it. Steve is patient, if nothing else.

“Besides,” Steve says, turning his head slightly and tapping the little brown piece in his ear, “you’re not the only one.”

“Look at us,” Bucky says with a grin after he checks it out. “Coupla mismatched guys. Ain’t we the pair?”

Steve laughs, and then Kate is back, asking for their order. Once she leaves Bucky is reaching for Steve’s hand again. Steve is confused for all of ten seconds until Bucky says, “Will you, Steve Rogers, do me the honor of being my fake-but-totally-real dinner date?”

Steve is only a little ashamed to admit how hot under the collar that makes him. Inside he’s screaming, but somehow he manages to sound completely normal when he says, “I would love to, Bucky Barnes.”

“Good.” The smile that Bucky flashes is absolutely blinding. Steve is pretty sure he’d do anything to keep Bucky smiling like that. Jesus Christ, he’s so fucked.

“So,” Bucky continues after a few moments of amiable silence passes between them, “you an artist?” His head inclines towards Steve’s sketchbook as he leans back in his seat, letting go of Steve’s hand.

Steve absolutely does not miss it. Not at all.  
  
“Trying to be,” Steve says, leaning back as well. “It doesn't exactly pay the rent right now, so I got a forgettable office job.”

Bucky nods. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Steve just barely manages not to roll his eyes. He can’t stop his mouth, though, because he never knows  _ when _ to shut up. “Yeah, this is  _ exactly _ what I wanna do with my life.”

It’s only after the words have left his mouth that Steve freezes. Bucky, to his credit, only looks amused, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, wincing. Even though he means it, apologizing hurts. Jeez, what does that say about  _ him _ ?

Bucky just laughs in response and reaches across the table to take Steve’s hand. It shouldn’t surprise Steve, considering this is the third— _ third! _ — time, but the warm skin of Bucky’s palm is still a shock.

“Life is shitty,” Bucky says. “That’s something we can both agree on. But as long as we like the people we surround ourselves with, it’s worth it, right?”

The way he stares directly into Steve’s eyes as he says it makes everything in him light up. Swallowing hard, Steve nods. There’s no way that looks means anything. There can’t be. Hot guys like Bucky don’t look twice at guys like Steve.

“What about you?” Steve asks, proud that his voice doesn’t tremble. He takes another fortifying drink of his beer and tries to ignore the bitterness. At least it doesn’t take much to get him drunk.

“Not a lotta demand for one-armed guys out there.” Bucky flashes that cocksure grin again. “Lucky for me my buddy owns a business and needed someone good with numbers to be his accountant.”  
  
“Is that what you did before...?”

“Before becoming symmetrically imbalanced? Nah, that was when I was in college. Needless to say I dropped out. I was gonna major in Mathematics, though. Wanted to be a teacher.”

Well, that’s a new kink Steve didn’t know he had.

Oh, Jesus Christ,  _ no _ , he needs to be stopped.

Bucky must mistake Steve’s internal-battle silence as something else, because his brow pinches and he says, somewhat haltingly, “You can, um. You can tell me to go. I’ve hijacked enough if your time already.” He tilts his body and lifts up, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. “I can cover this, it’s okay.”

Steve watches with a sense of detachment until it finally clicks. He’s maybe a little too quick to reach across the table and slap Bucky’s wallet out of his hand, and he doesn’t even think of the consequences for that as he says, “No!” and then composes himself, sitting back down and desperately trying to stop the blush he can feel creeping up his neck. “I mean, no, you don’t need to go. I’m...having fun, actually. I, uh. I really like you, Buck.”

Bucky blinks, and then beams, and Steve is surprised he doesn’t turn to a puddle of human goo in the booth. Because that grin is...holy hell, it’s  _ nice _ .

It’s not that soft smile from before, or that self-assured one that was clearly a front. This is genuine, and it does funny things to Steve’s heart that have nothing to do with his arrhythmia.

“You do?” Bucky asks. Steve doesn’t want to get ahead of himself, but Bucky sounds almost  _ hopeful _ .

“I—”

Kate arrives with their food, halting Steve mid-thought. It’s nearly a losing battle to not glare at her as she sets down Bucky’s pasta and Steve’s lemon chicken, but he manages.

Once she leaves Steve rubs the back of his neck and stares down at his plate and says, “I do.” He tries to say more, but his mouth isn’t wanting to work. He’s afraid that if he tries what comes out will scare Bucky away faster than he can say “wait.”

“You know, that was basically us saying our vows to each other,” Bucky teases, but when Steve looks up the expression on his face is far from teasing.

It’s downright  _ intense _ , those wide-set gray-blue eyes staring directly at him: it makes Steve feel pinned down, like an insect under a magnifying glass. And it further hammers home Steve’s earlier point:  _ what _ is someone like  _ Bucky _ doing with  _ him _ ?

Steve is...well, don’t get him wrong. He knows he’s not unattractive, necessarily, but 5’4” and maybe 100 pounds on a good day isn’t exactly what most men go for. And Bucky, who could definitely be the face for a fashion company, should not be  _ flirting _ with Steve.

But he is. Oh, dear god, he is and Steve wants to do terrible, terrible things to him.

Steve picks up his knife and fork, cutting into his chicken, and says, as glibly as he can, “Hope you don’t mind a self-righteous artist, then.”

To his surprise, Bucky laughs. He’s still smiling as he says, “Hope you don’t mind a neurotic accountant.”

“Isn’t that basically all accountants?”

Bucky snorts into his pasta. “Touche.”

They smile at each other across the table. For the next ten minutes or so they volley information back and forth, tentatively getting to know each other. Surprisingly any lingering awkwardness is long gone, and their rapport is that of people who have known each other their whole lives. When they do eventually lapse into silence while they slowly make their way through their entrees, it’s a comfortable one.

“So do you do this often?” Steve asks a few minutes into that silence. He scoops up a forkful of rice and adds, “Save people from embarrassing situations, I mean.”

Bucky chews his mouthful, then swallows. He reaches for his glass and Steve feels a little faint watching the bob of his adam’s apple as he drinks.

“Nah,” Bucky replies, bringing one corner of his lip between his teeth. He suddenly looks bashful, which is, yeah, a  _ really good _ look on him. He lowers his eyes slightly and says, “Just really cute boys that I really wanna kiss.”

Steve almost drops his fork, his breath halting in his chest. “You—do you mean that?”

“One hundred percent.” Bucky puts down his own fork, looking thoughtful. “You really don’t know how beautiful you are, do you, Steve?”

“I’m not—” Steve begins to say before Bucky interjects.

“ _ Yes _ , you are. I don’t just spend my time waitin’ to pounce on some random guy. Though any chance of being able to do that is long gone,” Bucky says, staring ruefully down at his left sleeve. He looks back up to fix Steve with a fiercely determined glare. “Anyway, point is, you are, and the fuckin’ idiot who stood you up is missing out.”

“Well, he was a blind date,” Steve admits. “Peggy—she’s my roommate—set me up with him. I’m pretty sure she’s tired of me hogging the couch every night.”

“Blind is right,” Bucky mutters. “Look, forgive me if I’m being a little forward, but Steve, you are  _ gorgeous _ . When I saw you sitting over here by yourself, I said to myself, nah, Barnes, no  _ way _ that man is alone. Surely he’s got someone, boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever. But then no one showed up, and you kept lookin’ at the door, and I had to take my chance.”

Normally, this is the exact thing that enrages Steve. Seeing strangers hit up men or women who are alone because they see it as easy prey—there’s never any excuse for that kind of behavior.

But the fact that Bucky immediately apologized and offered to leave?

He’s not like those strangers.

It’s not difficult to see that Bucky, despite his brazenness, is just as insecure and self-conscious as Steve: he’s just able to hide his neuroses in ways that Steve can only ever dream of. And, sure, Steve can walk directly into (or start) a fight without blinking, but human interaction gets him quaking at the knees.

Bucky is hunched over himself, just enough to be noticeable. His hair, so carefully tucked behind his ears, has begun to slide loose on the left side, and Steve aches to reach across the table and fix it.

It’s impossible to miss the tense line of Bucky’s forearm as he reaches for his beer, the hurried flitting of his eyes back and forth. What had been a cocksure man who slid into the booth across from Steve is slowly beginning to dissolve, like paper dropped into water.

So Steve takes a long, fortifying draught of his own beer, tries not to cough, and sets his glass down. He lifts his chin and looks Bucky directly in the eyes and says, “Well, you’re in luck. Because I wanna kiss you, too.”

Bucky freezes, lips slightly parted. His eyes widen, and Steve can’t help his responding chuckle. In a fit of bravery he’s the one to reach across the table to take Bucky’s hand, gently easing his fork from between his fingers.

“Should we, um.” Bucky clears his throat, and Steve mentally pats himself on the back at the slight flush creeping across Bucky’s cheeks. “Should we get the check?”

Usually Steve feels bad about leaving uneaten food behind, but the longer he stares at Bucky’s mouth the harder it’s becoming to care about anything that isn’t finding out what those lips will feel like against his. By the time Kate comes back with their receipt Steve is close to jumping out of his skin with both anticipation and anxiety.

Once it’s signed and the tip is added (by Bucky, who refused to let Steve pay anything), they stand. Rationally, Steve knew that Bucky was taller than him, but seeing it, actually having to look up, makes his palms sweat.

Without a table to obscure him Bucky is broad, his right arm well-muscled. The simple dark blue tee he’s wearing stretches over his chest. His legs are—oh Jesus, his thighs are  _ thick _ , his legs impossibly long.

Steve looks up, and Bucky holds out his hand.

They both end up going to the same station, but for different trains. Steve is pleased to note that Bucky only lets go of his hand long enough to swipe his MetroCard before reaching for it again.

Once down on the platform Bucky lets go of Steve’s hand again and takes his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and holding it out. He says, quietly, “No pressure, but if you want…”

Steve takes it quickly, no questions, opening up Bucky’s contact list and entering his information. “Of course I want to,” he says, sending a text to himself for good measure. In his pocket his own phone vibrates.

They stand, staring and silent. The faint breeze from the tunnel blows Bucky’s hair across his eyes, and this time Steve doesn’t hesitate to reach up and tuck the strands back.

He isn’t sure who moves first, but then Bucky’s hand is on his jaw and one of Steve’s hands is on the back of Bucky’s neck, the other low on Bucky’s chest. They both close the gap between them at the same time, and Steve feels his blood practically  _ sing _ as Bucky’s lips close over his.

Neither move to deepen it, and yet when they pull back Steve is as breathless as if they’d been making out. He looks up through his lashes and suppresses a shudder at the darkness of Bucky’s eyes.

“Um.” Steve runs his tongue over his lower lip, drawing it between his teeth. A low rumbling alerts them to an approaching train, and after a quick peek Steve turns back to Bucky and says, “So, that’s me.”

Bucky hesitates, then he’s pulling Steve in again, twining their hands together. The kiss this time is deeper, Bucky’s tongue easing Steve’s lips apart to gently slip inside. Steve sways, both from the brush of Bucky’s tongue and the wind from the train as it pulls up to the platform.

When they part this time Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, saying, “Call me?”

The doors slide open and people begin to spill out. Gray eyes, big and imploring, make Steve’s mouth curl into a smile. He holds onto Bucky’s hand as long as he can before stepping onto the train.

Before the doors slide closed, he says, “Tonight.”

The last glimpse he gets of Bucky is a broad, stupefied grin.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [here](http://endofadream.tumblr.com) and instagram is [here](http://instagram.com/wintersoldiered) if you’re into that sorta thing!
> 
> reviews are always lovely because i love talking about my works!


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